


On the altar

by qwerty



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M, Vore, unprocessed soylent green is not good eating!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-31 05:43:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qwerty/pseuds/qwerty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ritual sacrifice; a life, and a little more, in exchange for a life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the altar

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Merlin has to eat Mordred's heart as part of a ritual to save Arthur.

Even bound and stretched over the stone altar with his arms pulled too far back over his shoulders, Mordred watches him with a faint, angry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, bright-eyed and, not defiant but unafraid, expectant, even.

Merlin pulls himself up, scraping his hands and knees painfully on the rough surface. He stops, sucks in a deep breath and coughs, starts forward again and stops again. He grabs at the knife in his belt without looking and misses it twice, then glares down at his waist until his shaking hand closes around the hilt.

"Tell. Tell me there's, there's s-some other way. Tell me you lied," he hisses as he climbs over Mordred's body, settling on his hips.

From the crystalline wall of ice he is encased in, Arthur raises his head slightly, as though to watch. He is grey-faced and hollow-eyed, and looks like a corpse that has been jostled slightly. Mordred follows the direction of his look and shakes his head. _You know what needs to be done, Emrys._

He stabs down. The tip glances off bone, and Mordred jerks in his bonds, without any change in expression. Merlin sucks in a few more gasping breaths, then rips the front of Mordred's shirt open, baring the thin, white chest and sharply protruding ribcage marred only by the smeared red from the scratch Merlin had inflicted. He looks like a corpse as well, a starved pitiful refugee from one of the kingdoms that had marched their hopeless and determined armies against Arthur.

Merlin lays his open palm against the cold skin and bones, feeling the steady heartbeat grow faster, and the skin becomes damp under his hand while Mordred stares silently at him.

"Don't," he starts to say. Then Mordred licks his lips, a quick flash of pink tongue over chapped white lips, and swallows. Merlin sets the knife over his chest, pressing the tip in, and mutters a quick incantation for strength and precision, and drives the blade home.

It is fast. Mordred's eyes widen and grow fixed as he drags the knife down, bone crunching as it parts around the metal. A ragged gash of mangled white red yellow before him as he sets the knife down, digs in with his fingers and pries, cracks the ribcage apart with both hands.

Mordred continues to make no noise as Merlin thrusts his hand into the hot, slick flesh and closes it around the hot, pulsing organ as warm wetness engulfs, sucks him in. Merlin gags a little, tugs at the resistant heart, then picks up the knife again and simply hacks it free. Mordred exhales as he draws out the lump of still-twitching meat, inhales shallowly, then exhales again. His eyes are still fixed on Merlin as his body shudders softly and goes still.

It sits bright and slick in his hand, dripping and shivering as though still trying to beat despite the ragged veins and arteries hanging from it. Merlin's hand clenches over it involuntarily, squeezing, and a small gush of hot blood spills over his hand and drips down his elbow to splatter on his thighs; Mordred's still body shifts under him, perhaps in reaction. The heavy, metallic smell of blood, and something faintly offal and raw clings in his mouth and throat like he has already gone through with the ritual, and he has to fight to repress the rising gorge again.

Arthur has shifted in his gelid prison once more. Now his head is raised, blank eyes seemingly directed at the altar where Merlin crouches dragon-like in judgement over Mordred's steaming carcass. Merlin gasps for another mouthful of the foul air, and raises the heart to his lips.

He bites down. It is warm and yielding and doesn't taste like much of anything except for blood, and it is only when he tries to bite through that he meets resistance, the firm muscle refusing to part for him. Doggedly, he clenches his jaws tight and pulls, sawing at it with his teeth until he manages to get a hunk of flesh free and chew on it. He chews and chews, gradually tearing away small enough bits that he can swallow and not fear choking or throwing up.

As he takes another bite, he becomes convinced that Arthur is watching him through the ice, even though he is only standing still and hollow-eyed as before. Merlin gags again, squeezes his eyes shut and chews, and swallows, and chews, and swallows until the second bite is down, then he opens his eyes again.

Arthur's lips are faintly parted, on a breath or sigh. Merlin leans forward, raises his trembling free hand to touch the ice wall over the full, rosy lips and leaves a smear of blood on the ice. He averts his eyes again and takes another bite.

It becomes easier. He becomes used to the texture and the taste, and the sensation of the cooling body pinned beneath him. He has a system: bite, pull, chew, swallow. There's no need to think about anything but this. Bite, pull, chew, swallow. He can do this. He can. He will. Bite, pull, chew, swallow.

When the heart is cold and rubbery and half-gone, he feels fingers brush his bloodied cheek and startles, flinching away, nearly dropping the precious flesh. The ice, the ice around him and holding him upright is gone, but Arthur is still frozen before him, and pale and cold and bloodless as Mordred beneath him. His face remains slack and unreadable, but his sword arm is raised and his hand is touching Merlin's face, whatever that means.

Is Arthur aware? Is he seeing this, the monster Merlin is making of himself? Can he- Merlin swallows hard on the bloody-tasting bile rising in his throat and deliberately shuts his eyes again so he can focus. Bite, pull, chew, swallow.

Somehow it seems colder with the ice gone. Merlin's shirt is clammy and clinging to him under his old coat, and by now he's shaking uncontrollably, barely managing to keep his grip on the slippery chunk of ragged muscle in his hand. The cold, wet flesh bumps his face again and again as he tries to guide it to his mouth, until he simply gives up and rams it against his face and slides it to his mouth to bite at it, smearing blood all over. He swallows.

Cold, cold hands are framing his face and he keeps his eyes closed as he continues to eat, and feels them warm fractionally with each bit he swallows. His face is wet: the hot, bitter-salt lines of moisture sliding downwards and breaking against the heart and his mouth are the only warmth he feels while he struggles with the heart.

There is still a little left, a small piece he could just about fit in his mouth. It's nearly done. Merlin begins shaking, violent tremors ripping through him and nearly shaking him off the altar. Then lukewarm arms wrap around him and pull him close. Arthur, or whatever is animating his body, has climbed onto the altar with him. The smell of Arthur, fresh sweat and musk and snow and oiled hunting leathers, enfold him, blocking out the stench of blood and violent death.

He will not be fooled. He's not finished with the heart, the spell is incomplete, and Arthur would never condone this. Merlin drags in a long, sobbing breath and crams the last piece in his mouth, even if it is still a little too large.

He chews and chews and chews, hands clamped over his mouth while Arthur's arms pull him close, pressing him tight against Arthur's warm body so he cannot shiver. Arthur's lips are at his temple, warm, faintly sour breath tickling his neck. He tries to swallow and nearly chokes, and Arthur's hands stroke over his head and shoulders while he coughs againsts his blood-tacky hands, determined not to fail this time.

Merlin keeps chewing, and swallowing, and when the last bit is finally gone, Arthur tightens his grip around Merlin and goes still.

Merlin lets out a shuddery sigh and keeps his face tucked into Arthur's shoulder and neck so he doesn't have to look Arthur in the eye. His next breath becomes a gasping sob, and he keeps shaking and breathing against Arthur while Arthur whispers comforting, meaningless words and hushes him, kissing his temple and sticky cheeks until he looks just as gory and tainted as Merlin.

"What have you done," he hears Arthur saying, and draws back to stare at Arthur's red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes.

"I," he starts, coming up with no excuses, no easy lies.

Arthur says, "What have you done for me," and presses his mouth over Merlin's, breathing for him and licking his bloody mouth clean.


End file.
